


Look Divine

by folkful



Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, At one point, Canon-Typical Violence, Dawnguard, Deepthroating, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Mutual Non-Con, Oral Sex, Tears, Vampire Hunters, Vampires, Vomiting, also i feel like i have to clarify, and also a big switch, id say its milder than canon cos its mostly off-screen, im just tagging it for my fellow emetophobic people, its not in any sexual context, one mention of it, only in the fact that the vampire questline is done but the dawnguard are mostly still alive, vira is a little shit, wow this one sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28897683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkful/pseuds/folkful
Summary: The Lord of Castle Volkihar is interrupted on his way to Dawnstar.
Relationships: Original Dunmer Character(s)/Agmaer, Original Dunmer Character(s)/Celann
Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057886
Comments: 20
Kudos: 8





	Look Divine

**Author's Note:**

> Tags! They're important!
> 
> This was supposed to happen later on, I was gonna do something more DB-centric, but this was the only thing that came to me. Been doing the Dawnguard quest in one of my current playthroughs and I have a lot of feelings about them rn lol  
> Also, sorry it took a while longer than usual, I've been handling some irl shit and it left me a bit tired and lacking in inspiration.  
> I've checked it as well as I could, but I'm at an increased risk of typos due to shaky hands, so please keep that in mind and don't destroy me in the comments 
> 
> As always, I'm happy for any feedback or ideas for future stories.

If the Dawnguard truly believed they could take Viraven by surprise, they were not only wrong, but dim-witted.

As it were, when two men both wearing that distinct armor made a very ambitious attempt at ambushing the Dunmer-turned, he thought it more an inconvenience than anything else. Throwing his torch into a snow-pile, hearing the flame fizzle out (Skyrim was too damn cold, he thought, even for the undead), he took in the sight of his attackers as he readied himself. He would discard these two, easily, and then be on his way.

The first was a Breton, wiry and fox-haired, light on his feet in spite of his armor. The second was a Nord with over a head's height on Viraven, carrying a crossbow. By his stance and the way he held his weapon alone, the mer could tell he was lacking in true combat experience.

More importantly, he found they were pretty, the both of them.

Perhaps it required further investigation. Death was a little too final, this time, flattering as it could be on a man. They were worth keeping alive, for now, for exploration. 

Astrid's old blade in one hand, an enchanted dagger in the other, Viraven sidestepped a poorly-aimed crossbow bolt from the Nord.

Then, he pounced.

Things were over and done with fairly quickly, once he managed to incapacitate the Breton. He seemed the more experienced of the two, the better fighter, the one who thought faster, reacted faster. Viraven only had one pair of manacles on him (retrieved from the ruins of Falkreath Sanctuary), and he decided Fox-Hair was the more dangerous of the two. So he shackled his wrists behind his back, letting the chain go around a tall, slender tree, leaving him kneeling on the layer of snow. He was still reeling from being hit with the Dunmer-turned's draining power, a small trickle of blood running from his nose. Viraven tilted his head up, meeting his disoriented gaze for a moment before wiping the liquid with his thumb, then licking the digit.

The Nord was only half-conscious, and Viraven made do with rope, tying his wrists together with clever thieves' fingers and propping him up against a boulder, making sure he did not topple over. Then, he gathered their weapons, leaving them far out of reach, taking their quivers of steel bolts and putting them in his travelling pack. He would bring one of the crossbows with him too, when he left. This kind was mostly an invention of the Dawnguard. He knew more than a few of his associates would take great interest in reverse engineering it.

He sat down, crouching in front of the beaten Breton.

"I admire your little organisation's tenacity, truly, but hunting me down was never going to work." Fox-Hair glared at him, looking every bit a treat to the right kind of eye, and Viraven flashed the Breton a fanged grin. "I'm not one of the mongrels hiding out in caves and trying to feed off skeevers, as I'm sure you understand. No, I got to overthrowing Lord Harkon before even your people did. Could have at least bothered to send me a thank-you note, considering I spared you all from the fate of a dying sun and free roam for my kind."

"You...you disgusting creature."

Viraven merely laughed, shaking his head.

"And you're all self-righteous pricks. Save your insults. They're just words."

He began to open Fox-Hair's armor, having to search the foreign garments for their belts and clasps. The Breton began to struggle now, frantic and enraged.

"Let us go, you cretin! You - you fucking abomination, I'll gut you!"

Viraven slapped his already bruised face.

"You're the ones who made sure to attack me somewhere remote. Now you can reap the consequences of that mistake."

He discarded most of the armor, and most of the clothing underneath, leaving only his thin trousers and his boots, only to spare him from the elements. Then, he moved to the larger man, who was beginning to regain his senses and realise his position.

One of the advantages with being both mer and vampire was an experience and affinity for reading others. He was a relatively fresh vampire, but as Dunmer he was well within his adult years, and he'd seen his fair share of people. And vampirism heightened the senses, made one very perceptive.

As he methodically stripped the Nord of his gear in the same way, keeping a watchful eye on the both of them, Viraven quickly caught on to the kinds of men he had in his grasp.

The Breton, even when he had attempted to insult the Dunmer-turned, when he had thrashed against the manacles in an attempt to break out of them, had exuded very little fear. There was anger, yes, some desperation, but he contained the rest surprisingly well.

The Nord, while trying to do much the same, had terror rolling off him in almost tangible tidal waves. He looked only somewhat older than twenty (human lifespans were concerning, truly, he did not know how they bore it), likely a new recruit. He seemed conflicted, struggling to keep his fear at bay seemingly to keep from embarrassing himself before the Breton. He doubted the lovely thing had ever encountered a pure-blooded vampire before. One lacking his cravings would have torn them to pieces - strong though they were; Viraven himself was not entirely uninjured, he had not been using lethal force.

Once he figured out the straps on the Nord's boots, when the two were sufficiently made harmless, Viraven leaned in and pressed a kiss to the young hunter's cheek, over a scrape left by the coarse ground. The man looked at him, worried. The Dunmer-turned studied him, studied his companion, their strong bodies. He absently palmed at his cock through his clothing, noting the Nord's broad chest, the little plumpness of his ass underneath his trousers. The Breton's lean musculature and the sun-spots dotting his skin.

Upon noticing what he was doing, Fox-Hair's face went sour, looking at Viraven like he was a particularly nasty skeever. His pretty lips pursed, and the mer decided he wanted to get between them.

He thought first to at least loosen the manacles from the tree, but leaving him the way he was, half-immobile, was all the more tempting. Viraven ran a hand through the man's hair, pushing it from his face. He recoiled at the touch, and then even further when he adjusted his own armor enough to free his hardening length, stroking it a few times, seeing the Nord shoot nervous looks his way.

"I'll let the both of you go free, let you live, if you suck me off."

"The Divines will get their justice for this." Fox-Hair's voice was quiet.

"Will you do it?" He drew Astrid's blade. The man nodded, defeated.

"Don't bite. I assure you, I can bite back, ten times harder."

It was the truth, and he'd do it if need be, but there was no malice in Viraven's voice, no real edge. It was not a threat so much as it was a simple statement. He got no reply, but the Breton seemed like he had a good head on his shoulders. He'd listen, for his own sake. 

Viraven did not loosen the man's hands, he did not  _ need  _ them, though they would have made things much easier. Instead, he aided the Breton only as much as he needed to, guiding himself toward the reluctant mouth.

Fox-Hair regarded him with wary eyes, somewhere on the path between green and brown. The Dunmer-turned pulled him closer by his red hair - he'd seen such red on Dunmer, too, but he thought now that perhaps this was where the colour looked best, against pale, rough skin. Like this Breton, like Brynjolf. He felt more than a little lucky he'd caught these two, beautiful and righteous, just waiting to be knocked off their high horses. One of the Princes must've sent them his way. It wouldn't be the first time they delivered such a reward. He hoped it wasn't old Molag Bal - the lack of violence would be disappointing to his most influential patron. Perhaps the utter dominion he had over the poor, bright souls would be satisfactory, though.

Fox-Hair was beginning to take him in, moving slow. Not the wide-eyed, virginal kind of slow, the slow of one who needed to do something he desperately did not want. He did not seem wholly inexperienced, no, but there was no real effort to please. It was mechanical, and stiff, and Viraven decided very quickly he would not be satisfied with so little. He gripped the red tresses harder, but did not pull the man all the way onto his cock, simply held him in place there.

"Use your mouth properly, my love. I'm sure you know how. If I were you, I would quit being insolent."

The Breton's tongue pressed against his flesh, tightening the heat around him, nowhere near an apology, only trying to appease him. But he yielded the strength of his hold, rolling his hips slightly, loosely fucking into the hot mouth.

The Nord was staring at the ground, and Viraven spoke up.

"Look at me, boy." He obeyed, although reluctantly. "And keep your eyes on us. Perhaps you'll learn something."

There was pain in the young hunter's eyes, a great deal of fear mixed with empathy for his companion's position.

He was saving his final release for later, but he had to admit, the idea of staining the Breton's dour face, his pretty hair, was tempting. It was unlikely these two would willingly put themselves in his way again - that, or they would try and hunt him down for revenge - so he might not get to see it done. He thought if he found another like this, fiery and sharp, he would take this fantasy out on them, instead. He hoped they would at least give him their vengeance. Maybe they would take him like this, too, shove themselves down his throat. It was unlikely at best, they were far too good-natured, but he liked the thought.

Fox-Hair was, while still not showing any particular enthusiasm, giving him more of his mouth. Viraven would need to withdraw soon, he knew, but he wanted to teach a real lesson, first. A punishment, of a sort. Placing both hands at the back of his head, he pulled it forward until the man's nose met his skin, making him gag violently and try to back off him. But he held him still, moving his hips only slightly as the man tried to tug his hands from the manacles to steady himself. His eyes were dampening quickly, and he was making wretched sputtering noises. He gave him a moment to breathe, but he did not beg or even look at Viraven. The Nord seemed to be begging  _ for  _ him, instead, seemingly afraid the other man would choke to death. 

What a way to go, honestly.

A long string of drool connected him to the Breton, and when the Dunmer-turned began to move him onto his cock again, he clenched his mouth shut with surprising strength. Viraven tugged his gorgeous hair, voice hardening.

"You know, if you won't do it, your associate will get a chance instead."

That was, apparently, the right sore spot to aim for. Fox-Hair opened his mouth again, looking up at Viraven with murder in his eyes, all the way up to the point he was choked on the mer's length and reflexively closed them.

Viraven would have to move forward soon, else he'd spill himself down the Breton's throat, or on his handsome face. He wanted to dishevel him properly, paint his clean, masculine features. He could feel mounting pressure and heat build in his stomach, and dropped his hold again, smearing precome on the rough skin of his cheek, in his well-kempt beard.

He caught himself for a moment, stopping to lick a broad stripe up the side of Fox-Hair's face, from his stained facial hair to the salty tears the near-asphyxiation had forced from him, all the while grinning a toothy, flirtatious grin.

Viraven stood, looking forward to the main course, his arousal having settled a little. Still strong, but softer around the edges. He crouched next to the Nord, maneuvering his unwilling body onto all fours. Already stripped of his armor, the Dunmer-turned began to methodically relieve him of the rest, managing to pin down the struggling hunter in spite of his strong build. 

"Leave the lad alone, for Stendarr's sake."

The Breton's voice was horribly tired, but the mention of Stendarr nearly had Viraven laugh aloud. Though, now that he thought about it, this just might be a way to once more involve the man he'd affectionately dubbed Fox-Hair. He hummed, thinking.

"Perhaps I'll let you decide," he finally said, soft tones directed at the Nord, this time. "Would you rather...take my fingers, or your comrade's?"

"Stop this," said Fox-Hair. "If it's adequate, I'll take his place."

The young hunter himself merely gave poorly contained, panicked noises.

"How selfish of you." Viraven laughed. "If you want me so badly, you need only ask. But no, gorgeous, I like to divide my attention equally. I can get back to you later, if you still crave it."

The Breton spat on the snow before Viraven's feet.

"You're disgusting," he snarled. "The Dawnguard will tear the flesh off your bones for this."

"And I wish them the best of luck in their endeavour." Viraven turned from him, finished with the conversation, and instead focused on the body of the tall Nord tied down and on his fours in front of him. He let one of his hands trail over the young man's meaty ass, his broad shoulders. So much larger than the Dunmer-turned, but so vulnerable like this, so sweet. Somehow, even here, naked in the cold, the Nord's pale skin was warm. 

"Aren't you just  _ beautiful? _ ", he breathed against the man's shoulder-blade. "Now, you have a choice to make for me. Either I prepare you, or he does."

There was a long moment of silence shared between them, before the young man spoke.

"C-Celann…"

So, Fox-Hair's name was Celann. The Breton's back stiffened, horrified.

"Well then," said Viraven, rubbing salt in the wound, "seems I'll be leaving him alone, as you asked. At least for now."

He helped Celann move closer, taking the shackles off his wrists. The man's eyes were closed, abject, but Viraven would not let him escape the sights for very long. First, though, he had another question to ask the Nord.

"Are you untouched in this regard, little hunter?"

"Y-yes," he answered, sounding in every way like he wanted to sink through the earth. 

"Have you been with another at all?"

"I...don't wanna t-"

"Have you?"

"Yeah." He was blushing, the colour alluring against his white skin, matching the tone of his brown eyes nicely. 

"Good boy," said Viraven, pressing a kiss to his damp cheek. "Tell me about it."

The young man's eyes were pleading, and Celann seemed to be trying to block it all out, either to spare the Nord's pride or his own.

"She - she l-lives in my home-village. We...never did much, just...just...mouths on p-places, and kissing."

The Dunmer-turned hummed once, leaning in and catching the young man's lips in a gentle kiss, testing him more than anything else. He did not reciprocate, and Viraven laughed mildly. 

"If that is how you kissed her, it's no wonder you never did much." He found his half-empty jar of oil in his satchel of potions (it was the best place to keep it), and handed it to Celann, who merely scowled. Then, he sat back on his haunches, satisfied with the idea of watching it all happen, with touching the warm skin of the Nord's back, his sides, his pretty face.

Celann took a deep breath, shutting his eyes once more momentarily, and then dipped the first finger on his right hand in the oil. The Nord's breathing was growing desperately afraid, and Viraven petted his hair slowly, gently.

"What's your name, sweetheart?", he asked, unsure whether he was trying to help take the young man's mind off the soon-to-be violation, or if he was simply poking at his resolve.

"Agmaer," came the response, voice trembling. The Dunmer-turned's sharp nails scratched at the Nord's pale scalp, not to hurt, but the opposite. He had claws and teeth, but a soft touch when he wanted it. He often did, when he had someone like this. He was not in any particularly harsh mood tonight.

The Breton's oiled digit finally began to push against Agmaer's hole, the former wearing an expression of intense disgust, the latter's eyes widening in fear. The Nord scrambled for something to hold on to, finding only fresh, loose snow, so Viraven moved in, seating himself so that the young man could hold onto his hands.

"Celann, C-Celann, please stop-"

He gave a weak, choked sound, the Breton's pointer finger halfway inside of him. Viraven caught Celann's gaze, shaking his head at the man. Celann himself glared back, his hazel eyes filled with hatred, breath turning to smoke in the cold.

"I'm sorry." He abandoned Viraven, staring at nothing, one hand in an awkward attempt at soothing the Nord's panic, stroking his upper back as his first finger slid in to the hilt. He began to work it in and out slowly, clearly trying not to hurt the young man. 

The chilly night was getting to the Dunmer-turned, so he fished another vial out of his satchel with the hand not being half-crushed by Agmaer's struggle to stay still. It had been given to him by Babette - she was truly the only thing keeping the remaining Dark Siblings alive - a potion that warmed the body like a strong drink or properly feeding.

Celann was doing the preparations slowly, slower than Viraven would have, but he did not interrupt or instruct the man, letting him figure it all out on his own. Despite his best efforts, and his much smaller stature, Agmaer was obviously in pain. His blunt nails were digging into Viraven's hand, likely unintentionally, so he let him. It wasn't clean or sharp pain, the kind he enjoyed, but it was bearable. His free hand tangled up in the Nord's thick hair again, and he smoothed it through little knots and dirt that had stuck among the pale locks from being thrown onto the ground not much earlier. 

Two fingers inside of him seemed to overwhelm the young man entirely. He couldn't relax, so he couldn't aid the painful intrusion of his body, and the sensation was foreign. He was still pleading quietly, but the words were jumbled, sentences coming out of order and barely legible. The Breton looked like he was trying to keep nausea at bay. He probably was.

Soon enough, the digits were withdrawn, and Celann moved further back, wiping his hand in the snow to get all the evidence of what he'd been forced to do as far away as possible.

Viraven moved back, dropping his steadying hold of Agmaer, re-shackling the Breton. There was a chance, although small, that the man would try and overpower him otherwise.

He knelt down, taking one ass-cheek in each hand, only caressing.

"W-wait." The Nord's voice was small, quiet.

"Hm? Do tell, my dear."

"It's...it...can't Celann…?"

What was obviously a request drew a muted laugh from Viraven, and the young Nord's entire body winced at the sound.

"You misunderstand this, pet," said the Dunmer-turned, still wearing an amused smile. "There is no choice this time. I'm the only option."

Were they under Seduction, Viraven would have untied his hands and had him spread himself, but he did not trust the sweet thing not to try and fight him either, and he didn't want to administer any harsher punishment. So he drew the large buttocks aside, pressing an almost chaste kiss to his newly prepared hole, letting his fangs scrape the skin of the cleft lightly as he drew back. The Nord's breath hitched, more in fear than anything else. The sound was intoxicating.

Viraven's arousal wasn't sharp, as it could be. It was comfortable, in a way, a mild buzz, like soaking in still water. When the head of his cock, too, kissed the rim of Agmaer's asshole, he sighed contentedly. He wasn't affected by the cold at all anymore, thanks to the potion, and he dribbled some more of the oil on his length, not wanting to hurt him further than what was necessary. 

"Take a deep breath, pet," he said. He listened to the inhale, and when the Nord began to breathe out, he started pushing in. His attempt at making it easier did not work, only interrupted the breath. The young man screamed through his teeth, but his inside felt like living silk, and Viraven let slip a quiet moan.

"Stop," the Nord rasped, "stop, you'll kill me, it won't - it won't work, it-"

"No, darling. I'm not harming you, you just need to open up for me. It always hurts when you aren't used to it."

That wasn't entirely true. It was all easier with one who truly wanted it, whose nerves did not get in the way. But he pressed in further, only a little at a time, pressing soothing kisses to the Nord's wide back, running soft hands over his rough skin, rolling one of his heavy balls in his spread fingers. He could feel the young man's pulse around his cock, the movement of his blood, and could not help but sheathe himself in it, wanting more of it. If he could, he would surround himself in that, in veins wrapped with velvety skin. He held himself there, which was all well and good, because Agmaer could scarcely breathe with the shock of penetration. When he caught himself, gulping in air like a man drowning, Viraven ran his hands over his pale chest, decorated with sparse, golden hairs.

"No!", the young man yelled, forcing the words out. "No, it feels like - like you're t-tearing me apart!"

The Dunmer-turned knew that was not going to happen. Celann's preparations had been slightly lacking, but he'd used plenty of oil to make up for it.

"Calm yourself, boy. And here I thought Nords were supposed to be hardy." He huffed, grinning out into the empty air. "I've fit my fist in a man without bleeding him."

This, and the way Viraven finally started fucking the Nord, tore an anguished wail from Agmaer.

"N-no, please don't-"

He had no plan to put the boy through such a thing, but he could not help his nature, and the fear was delicious. He wanted more of it. So he leaned in, mouth close to the Nord's ear.

You know," he said, so quietly that Celann surely could not hear him well enough to understand. "If I decided to turn you now, you would not be able to stop me. And once you woke up, you'd be hungrier than you've ever been before. Until you feed, your gut feels like a hollow pit. It's torturous. Do you think you would be able to keep yourself from draining your companion over there of his life's blood? Would Isran even want you back after that?"

Already hoarse, and gripped with terror, Agmaer shook his head wildly enough that his pale curls bobbed back and forth, beginning to cry open-mouthed. 

"D-don't bite me, don't - b-bite, please don't-"

Viraven rarely threatened this, but it was different this time. These men dedicated themselves to eradicating his kind, and so the idea of being turned was one of the worst they could fathom. It sent shockwaves of pleasure through him, and although he was thrusting in hard, it did not feel like enough. So he leaned over the much taller man's body, loosely wrapping one hand around his throat to guide his head back, not giving either himself or the Nord time to think before sinking into the white, unmarred neck. He'd already fed, so he did not rush it, only taking a little, savoring the taste. It wasn't so much about the act itself as it was about the effect it had on the sweet thing pinned and tied underneath him.

The Nord was trying to get away from his sharp teeth, to get himself loose, but although he was stupid with fear, he knew he could not rip himself away without tearing the fragile skin open, risking bleeding himself dry. His breath came fast and shallow, and he seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere between fight and flight. He would not be turned by this, would hardly be disoriented after the fact, but did he know that? Had they walked him through the details? It seemed not.

Behind them, Celann was saying something, voice hurried, but Viraven could hardly make it out past Agmaer's wailing and sobbing and begging. Most likely, the Breton was either attempting to reassure, or cursing the Dunmer-turned. Neither was interesting enough to acknowledge. No, he was drinking the Nord's fear, more so than his blood, feeding on the sensations of the young hunter's shaking body against his and the heat of his previously untapped hole. It had built up to his release slowly, and he let himself get lost in it, finally taken by the first wave, releasing himself and tainting the flesh fully for the first time.

It seemed to catch the Nord entirely by surprise, and he tried fruitlessly to pull away from the searing heat that filled him. But Viraven held him still, pumping his hips throughout his orgasm, only spurred on by the young hunter's wild clenching.

He released Agmaer's neck, and his head slumped onto his arms, trembling violently. He remained like that, ass still in the air like a whore, and Viraven stroked the skin as he drew his cock out of the man. The Nord shuddered, whining as he involuntarily pushed the mer's seed out of him. He enjoyed the way it looked against skin, whether it was a pale Nord or Breton, the gray of his own kind, or a dark-skinned Redguard. Such pretty contrast, that last one. Lacking in both shame and squeamishness, Viraven let one of his fingers trail the rivulet of milky white fluid, leaving an uneven horizontal stripe of it on his inner thigh. Such a strongly built thing, such a spirited warrior, but so vulnerable here. It was gorgeous.

Viraven fixed his clothes, letting Agmaer catch his breath and collect himself, if he even could. He had decided he'd let the both of them live, this time. But if they ever sought him, or any other of his clan, out, he would not be as merciful. The Nord still did not move, and so instead, the other man spoke.

"Will you at least let me up, if you have any sort of decency in you, so that I can help him?"

"How sweet of you." Viraven smiled at him. "Soon. And only if you can swear to me that you will not attack me if I let you loose. Try anything, anything at all, and I bury a dagger in the boy's neck."

"I swear."

"Hm."

The Dunmer-turned stood and turned around, packing up the two crossbows and the Breton's longsword, as well as the smaller pieces of their Dawnguard armor, anything he could comfortably bring with him. Then, he let Celann's wrists out of the manacles, watching them, standing with his back against a tree as the red-haired man carefully untied the other's bindings while trying his hardest to pretend Viraven did not exist. The two spoke in hushed voices, the Nord in hoarse, teary mumbles, the Breton's tone gentle and as steady as he could hold it. 

He checked over the bite marks on Agmaer's neck, kept him from falling over as he redressed - the young hunter had taken quite a nasty blow to the head during their fight, and Viraven noticed he was still not entirely sharp-minded, that he was moving with a sluggishness not only born from pain. This was further confirmed to him when Celann gingerly aided the Nord in standing, and he almost immediately doubled over, heaving, emptying his stomach onto the snow. It was likely nothing more than a minor concussion and the emotional distress of the rape. The boy was strong. He could handle it, eventually, once the shock and the injuries wore off.

Viraven crossed his arms, ever the watcher. The sun was beginning to rise, colouring the trees with soft orange light, sending waves of slow-burning heat through his body, settling in his muscles. It was only mildly uncomfortable so far, but it would turn truly painful soon enough, so he pulled up his hood, shielding his face from the warmth.

The Dunmer-turned gave Celann a nonchalant look as the man took back what was left of their armor. Then, he looked to the sky.

"I can understand why Isran would want to call you the Dawnguard. Does dawn in Skyrim not look divine?"

He got no reply except from a weak cough coming from the exhausted Nord, who was currently holding his cuirass in a death-grip but making no move to put it on. He was still in silent tears.

The Dunmer-turned would have loved to stay, but he had somewhere to be, and the two had already stolen enough of his time from him.

"If you're lucky," he began, "you may be able to make it down to Whiterun before the sun sets again."

He wasn't wholly certain where they would be marked down on a map, but it was somewhere between Whiterun and Dawnstar, at the outer edge of the Pale. He was headed north, to speak with Nazir, and then further, to castle Volkihar.

As Viraven walked away from the two hunters, he heard them once more begin talking between themselves, and he felt a warmth in him that had nothing to do with the sun when he heard the Breton reassure the Nord that turning him would have required his death, first.


End file.
